The Mad Earl's Bride (11 page)

She laughed again and wiped her nose—which was probably as red as her hair at present, she thought. And her hair must be a sight as well, judging by Bertie’s expression.

“There, you see?” Dorian told him. “She is practically herself again.”

Bertie was still eyeing her dubiously. “She’s all red and splotchy.”

“She simply needs time to . . . adjust,” Dorian said. “It turns out, you see, that Gwen will be stuck with me for—oh, heaven only knows how long. Poor girl. She came all this way to comfort a dying madman during his last tragic days—and now—”

“And now it turns out that all Cat’s got is a headache,” Gwendolyn said. Her voice was still wobbly. She steadied it. “It’s only megrims, Bertie.”

Her cousin blinked. “Megrims?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Like Aunt Claire’s spells?”

“Yes, quite like my mama.”

“And Uncle Frederick? And Great Uncle Mortimer?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Well, then.” Bertie’s eyes grew very bright. He rubbed them. “But I knew it would be all right, all along, like I told you. Mean to say, Cat, it ain’t all right, exactly. Very sick-making. Great Uncle Mortimer bangs his head against the wall. But megrims ain’t killed any of our lot yet.” He clapped Dorian on the shoulder. Then he took Dorian’s hand and pumped it vigorously. Then he hugged Gwendolyn. Then, red-faced, he broke away. “By Jupiter. A baby, by gad. Godfather. Megrims. Well. I’m thirsty.”

Then, frantically rubbing his eyes, Bertie hurried on to the house.

A
N HOUR LATER,
while Bertie was recovering his emotional equilibrium in the bathing chamber, Dorian stood with his wife, watching Mr. Eversham’s battered carriage lumber down the drive.

“We must get him a better carriage,” Dorian said. “People judge by appearances, and young doctors have a difficult time inspiring confidence. But a handsome equipage will indicate a profitable practice. If people believe he’s greatly sought after, they’ll be less likely to doubt his competence.”

“You think of everything,” Gwendolyn said. “But it is your protective streak—which I am beginning to suspect is a throwback to the Camoys’s feudal origins and the lord of the manor looking after all his people.”

“Don’t be silly,” he said. “I’m only being practical. The man will have enough to do between doctoring and supervising the hospital construction, without having to prove himself as well and get involved with local rivalries and politics.”

“Yes, dear,” she said dutifully. “Practical.”

“And you will have enough to do, without having to leap to his defense a dozen times a day—or bothering me about it. Pregnancy makes you cross enough as it is. Can’t have you antagonizing all of Dartmoor.”

They watched the carriage round a turning behind a hill and descend out of view. “The sun is setting,” he said. “The pixies and phantoms and witches will be at their toilette, preparing for the night’s revelries.”

His gaze returned to her. “Will you walk with me?”

She tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and walked with him into the garden. He took her to the stone bench where he’d found her quietly waiting weeks earlier. He sat, taking her onto his lap.

The sun hovered over a distant hill. Its glow set fire to the clouds scattered about like goose down pillows on a celestial bed of blue and green and violet.

“Do you still want to build in Dartmoor?” he asked.

She nodded. “I like it here, and so do you. And Dain and Jessica are near.”

“We’ll need a larger house if we’re going to raise a family,” he said. He glanced behind him at the modest manor house. “I suppose we could add a wing. It would not be very grand. But Rawnsley Hall was grand and it felt like an immense tomb. Couldn’t wait to get out of there. At present, in fact, I am strongly tempted to forget about repairs and raze the whole confounded pile.”

“You don’t like it, but your heir might,” she said. “If you rebuild, you might give it to him as a wedding gift.”

He lightly caressed her belly. “Are you sure you’ve a boy in there?”

“No, but we are bound to have one eventually.”

“Even before I realized there would be an ‘eventually,’ I knew I should be just as happy if it were a girl,” he said.

“Ah, well, you have a soft spot in your heart for females,” she said. “But you also seem to have a way with little boys, and so I am not anxious either way. You will make a doting, devoted papa. Which is a good thing,” she added with a little frown, “because the women of my family are rather negligent mothers. But then, they are always breeding, you see, which is distracting.”

“Then I shall look after the children,” he said. “Because I should like a great many, and you will have the additional distraction of hospital matters.”

She stroked his hair back. “You have a gift for thinking ahead.”

“I’ve been blessed with a great deal to look forward to,” he said. “Watching the hospital rise from the ground, for instance. Discovering what modern medical ideas and principles can and cannot achieve. The possibilities. The limitations.” He shook his head. “It amazes me how much I’ve learned about medicine in these last weeks, and how interesting it turns out to be. It even has a sort of poetry to it, and its own logic and riddles, like any intellectual pursuit. And there is the same wonderful feeling of discovery as mysteries are solved. I felt that today, when Eversham explained where your notes had led you.” He kissed her forehead. “I’m so proud of you.”

“You should be proud of yourself,” she said. “You did not put obstacles in my way, though you wanted to—to protect me from myself. Instead, you tried every possible way to help me solve my riddle—by writing to Borson and sending for Eversham.”

“Eversham is not like any other doctor I’ve encountered,” he said. “He certainly does have his own ideas. While you were washing your face, I asked him why he had accepted you as a colleague. He told me that in olden times, women were the healers in many communities. But their arts, to ignorant folk, seemed like magic, which was associated with the Devil. And so they were reviled and persecuted as witches.” He chuckled. “And so I realized I had been right from the first. I had wed a witch. And he was right, too, for you are a healer. You’ve healed my heart. That was the part that was ailing.”

She curled her fingers round his neck. “You’ve healed me, too, Cat. You made the doctor part and the woman part fit together.”

“Because I love both parts,” he said softly. “All your parts. All of you.”

She smiled, the sweet everlasting smile, and weaving her fingers into his hair, drew him down and kissed him, slowly, deeply, lingeringly.

While he lingered with her in the warm forever of that moment, the narrow red arc of the sun sank behind the glowing hill. A faint thread of light glimmered on the horizon. The night mists stole into the hollows and crevices of the moors, and the shadows swelled and lengthened, shrouding the winding byways in darkness.

The sharpening breeze made him lift his head. “A beautiful Dartmoor night,” he murmured. “At moments like this, it is easy to believe in magic.” He met her soft gaze. “You’re magic to me, Gwen.”

“Because I’m your witch, and you are my devoted familiar.”

“So I am.” He smiled down at her. “Let’s make a spell, sorceress.”

She frowned her endearing medical frown. “Very well. But first you must help me find some eye of newt.”

He laughed. Then, cradling his bride in his arms, the Earl of Rawnsley rose, and carried her into the house.

Want more tales of passion from

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bestselling author Loretta Chase?

Keep reading for a sneak peek at her new series featuring sisters from a scandalous aristocratic family . . .

Silk Is For Seduction

Scandal Wears Satin

Available now from Avon Books

An Excerpt from

S
I
LK
I
S
F
OR
S
EDUCTION

Prologue

I
N THE SUMMER
of 1810, Mr. Edward Noirot eloped to Gretna Greene with Miss Catherine DeLucey.

Mr. Noirot had been led to believe he was eloping with an English heiress whose fortune, as a result of this rash act, would become his exclusively. An elopement cut out all the tiresome meddling, in the form of marriage settlements, by parents and lawyers. In running off with a blue-blooded English lady of fortune, Edward Noirot was carrying on an ancient family tradition: His mother and grandmother were English.

Unfortunately, he’d been misled by his intended, who was as accomplished in lying and cheating, in the most charming manner possible, as her lover was. There had indeed been a fortune. Past tense. It had belonged to her mother, whom John DeLucey had seduced and taken to Scotland in the time-honored fashion of his own family.

The alleged fortune by this time was long gone. Miss DeLucey had intended to improve her financial circumstances in the way women of her family usually did, by luring into matrimony an unsuspecting blue-blooded gentleman with deep pockets and a lusting heart.

She, too, had been misled, because Edward Noirot had no more fortune than she did. He was, as he claimed, the offspring of a French count. But the family fortune had been swept away, along with the heads of various relatives, years before, during the Revolution.

Thanks to this comedy of errors, the most disreputable branch of one of France’s noble families was united with its English counterpart, better known—and loathed—in the British Isles as the Dreadful DeLuceys.

The reader will easily imagine the couple’s chagrin when the truth came out shortly after they’d made their vows.

The reader will undoubtedly expect the screaming, crying, and recriminations usual on such occasions. The reader, however, would be mistaken. Being the knaves they were—and furthermore quite truly in love—they laughed themselves sick. Then they joined forces. They set about seducing and swindling every dupe who crossed their path.

It was a long and convoluted path. It took them back and forth between England and the Continent, depending on when a location became too hot for comfort.

In the course of their wanderings, Catherine and Edward Noirot produced three daughters.

Chapter One

THE LADIES’ DRESS-MAKER. Under this head we shall include not only the business of a Mantua Maker, but also of a Milliner . . . In the Milliner, taste and fancy are required; with a quickness in discerning, imitating, and improving upon various fashions, which are perpetually changing among the higher circles.

The Book of English Trades,

and Library of the Useful Arts
, 1818

London

March 1835

M
ARCELLINE,
S
OPHIA, AND
Leonie Noirot, sisters and proprietresses of Maison Noirot, Fleet Street, West Chancery Lane, were all present when Lady Renfrew, wife of Sir Joseph Renfrew, dropped her bombshell.

Dark-haired Marcelline was shaping a papillon bow meant to entice her ladyship into purchasing Marcelline’s latest creation. Fair-haired Sophia was restoring to order one of the drawers ransacked earlier for one of their more demanding customers. Leonie, the redhead, was adjusting the hem of the lady’s intimate friend, Mrs. Sharp.

Though it was merely a piece of gossip dropped casually into the conversation, Mrs. Sharp shrieked—quite as though a bomb
had
gone off—and stumbled and stepped on Leonie’s hand.

Leonie did not swear aloud, but Marcelline saw her lips form a word she doubted their patrons were accustomed to hearing.

Oblivious to any bodily injury done to insignificant dressmakers, Mrs. Sharp said, “The Duke of Clevedon is
returning
?”

“Yes,” said Lady Renfrew, looking smug.

“To London?”

“Yes,” said Lady Renfrew. “I have it on the very best authority.”

“What happened? Did Lord Longmore threaten to shoot him?”

Any dressmaker aspiring to clothe ladies of the upper orders stayed au courant with the latter’s doings. Consequently, Marcelline and her sisters were familiar with all the details of this story. They knew that Gervaise Angier, the seventh Duke of Clevedon, had once been the ward of the Marquess of Warford, the Earl of Longmore’s father. They knew that Longmore and Clevedon were the best of friends. They knew that Clevedon and Lady Clara Fairfax, the eldest of Longmore’s three sisters, had been intended for each other since birth. Clevedon had doted on her since they were children. He’d never shown any inclination to court anyone else, though he’d certainly had liaisons aplenty of the other sort, especially during his three years on the Continent.

While the pair had never been officially engaged, that was regarded as a mere technicality. All the world had assumed the duke would marry her as soon as he returned with Longmore from their Grand Tour. All the world had been shocked when Longmore came back alone a year ago, and Clevedon continued his life of dissipation on the Continent.

Apparently, someone in the family had run out of patience, because Lord Longmore had traveled to Paris a fortnight ago. Rumor agreed he’d done so specifically to confront his friend about the long-delayed nuptials.

“I believe he threatened to horsewhip him, but of that one cannot be certain,” said Lady Renfrew. “I was told only that Lord Longmore went to Paris, that he said or threatened something, with the result that his grace promised to return to London before the King’s Birthday.”

Though His Majesty had been born in August, his birthday was to be celebrated this year on the 28th of May.

Since none of the Noirot sisters did anything so obvious as shriek or stumble or even raise an eyebrow, no onlooker would have guessed they regarded this news as momentous.

They went on about their business, attending to the two ladies and the others who entered their establishment. That evening, they sent the seamstresses home at the usual hour and closed the shop. They went upstairs to their snug lodgings and ate their usual light supper. Marcelline told her six-year-old daughter, Lucie Cordelia, a story before putting her to bed at her usual bedtime.

Lucie was sleeping the sleep of the innocent—or as innocent as was possible for any child born into their ramshackle family—when the three sisters crept down the stairs to the workroom of their shop.

Everyday, a grubby little boy delivered the latest set of scandal sheets as soon as they were printed—usually before the ink was dry—to the shop’s back door. Leonie collected today’s lot and spread them out on the worktable. The sisters began to scan the columns.

“Here it is,” Marcelline said after a moment. “ ‘Earl of L____ returned from Paris last night . . . We’re informed that a certain duke, currently residing in the French capital, has been told in no uncertain terms that Lady C_____ was done awaiting his pleasure . . . his grace expected to return to London in time for the King’s Birthday . . . engagement to be announced at a ball at Warford House at the end of the Season . . . wedding before summer’s end.’ ”

She passed the report to Leonie, who read, “ ‘Should the gentleman fail to keep his appointment, the lady will consider their ‘understanding’ a
misunderstanding
.’ ” She laughed. “Then follow some interesting surmises regarding which gentleman will be favored in his place.”

She pushed the periodical toward Sophia, who was shaking her head. “She’d be a fool to give him up,” she said. “A dukedom, for heaven’s sake. How many are there? And an unmarried duke who’s young, handsome, and healthy? I can count them on one finger.” She stabbed her index finger at the column. “Him.”

“I wonder what the hurry is about,” Marcelline said. “She’s only one and twenty.”

“And what’s she got to do but go to plays, operas, balls, dinners, routs, and so on?” said Leonie. “An aristocratic girl who’s got looks, rank, and a respectable dowry wouldn’t ever have to worry about attracting suitors. This girl . . .”

She didn’t have to complete the sentence.

They’d seen Lady Clara Fairfax on several occasions. She was stunningly beautiful: fair-haired and blue-eyed in the classic English rose mode. Since her numerous endowments included high rank, impeccable lineage, and a splendid dowry, men threw themselves at her, right and left.

“Never again in her life will that girl wield so much power over men,” Marcelline said. “I say she might wait until her late twenties to settle down.”

“I reckon Lord Warford never expected the duke to stay away for so long,” said Sophy.

“He always was under the marquess’s thumb, they say,” Leonie said. “Ever since his father drank himself to death. One can’t blame his grace for bolting.”

“I wonder if Lady Clara was growing restless,” Sophy said. “No one seemed worried about Clevedon’s absence, even when Longmore came home without him.”

“Why worry?” said Marcelline. “To all intents and purposes, they’re betrothed. Breaking with Lady Clara would mean breaking with the whole family.”

“Maybe another beau appeared on the scene—one Lord Warford doesn’t care for,” said Leonie.

“More likely Lady Warford doesn’t care for other beaux,” said Sophy. “She wouldn’t want to let a dukedom slip through her hands.”

“I wonder what threat Longmore used,” Sophy said. “They’re both reputed to be wild and violent. He couldn’t have threatened pistols at dawn. Killing the duke would be antithetical to his purpose. Maybe he simply offered to pummel his grace into oblivion.”

“That I should like to see,” Marcelline said.

“And I,” said Sophy.

“And I,” said Leonie.

“A pair of good-looking aristocratic men fighting,” Marcelline said, grinning. Since Clevedon had left London several weeks before she and her sisters had arrived from Paris, they hadn’t, to date, clapped eyes on him. They were aware, though, that all the world deemed him a handsome man. “There’s a sight not to be missed. Too bad we shan’t see it.”

“On the other hand, a duke’s wedding doesn’t happen every day—and I’d begun to think this one wouldn’t happen in our lifetime,” Sophy said.

“It’ll be the wedding of the year, if not the decade,” Leonie said. “The bridal dress is only the beginning. She’ll want a trousseau and a completely new wardrobe befitting her position. Everything will be of superior quality. Reams of blond lace. The finest silks. Muslin as light as air. She’ll spend thousands upon thousands.”

For a moment, the three sisters sat quietly contemplating this vision, in the way pious souls contemplated Paradise.

Marcelline knew Leonie was calculating those thousands down to the last farthing. Under the untamable mane of red hair was a hardheaded businesswoman. She had a fierce love of money and all the machinations involving it. She labored lovingly over her ledgers and accounts and such. Marcelline would rather clean privies than look at a column of figures.

But each sister had her strengths. Marcelline, the eldest, was the only one who physically resembled her father. For all she knew, she was the only one of them who truly was his daughter. She had certainly inherited his fashion sense, imagination, and skill in drawing. She’d inherited as well his passion for fine things, but thanks to the years spent in Paris learning the dressmaking trade from Cousin Emma, hers and her sisters’ feelings in this regard went deeper. What had begun as drudgery—a trade learned in childhood, purely for survival—had become Marcelline’s life and her love. She was not only Maison Noirot’s designer but its soul.

Sophia, meanwhile, had a flair for drama, which she turned to profitable account. A fair-haired, blue-eyed innocent on the outside and a shark on the inside, Sophy could sell sand to Bedouins. She made stonyhearted moneylenders weep and stingy matrons buy the shop’s most expensive creations.

“Only think of the prestige,” Sophy said. “The Duchess of Clevedon will be a leader of fashion. Where she goes, everyone will follow.”

“She’ll be a leader of fashion in the right hands,” Marcelline said. “At present . . .”

A chorus of sighs filled the pause.

“Her taste is unfortunate,” said Leonie.

“Her mother,” said Sophy.

“Her mother’s dressmaker, to be precise,” said Leonie.

“Hortense the Horrible,” they said in grim unison.

Hortense Downes was the proprietress of Downes’s, the single greatest obstacle to their planned domination of the London dressmaking trade.

At Maison Noirot, the hated rival’s shop was known as
Dowdy’s
.

“Stealing her from Dowdy’s would be an act of charity, really,” said Marcelline.

Silence followed while they dreamed their dreams.

Once they stole one customer, others would follow.

The women of the beau monde were sheep. That could work to one’s advantage, if only one could get the sheep moving in the right direction. The trouble was, not nearly enough high-ranking women patronized Maison Noirot because none of their friends did. Very few were ready to try something new.

In the course of the shop’s nearly three-year existence, they’d lured a number of ladies, like Lady Renfrew. But she was merely the wife of a recently knighted gentleman, and the others of their customers were, like her, gentry or newly rich. The highest echelons of the ton—the duchesses and marchionesses and countesses and such—still went to more established shops like Dowdy’s.

Though their work was superior to anything their London rivals produced, Maison Noirot still lacked the prestige to draw the ladies at the top of the list of precedence.

“It took ten months to pry Lady Renfrew out of Dowdy’s clutches,” said Sophy.

They’d succeeded because her ladyship had overheard Dowdy’s forewoman, Miss Oakes, say the eldest daughter’s bodices were difficult to fit correctly, because her breasts were shockingly mismatched.

An indignant Lady Renfrew had canceled a huge order for mourning and come straight to Maison Noirot, which her friend Lady Sharp had recommended.

During the fitting, Sophy had told the weeping eldest daughter that no woman in the world had perfectly matching breasts. She also told Miss Renfrew that her skin was like satin, and half the ladies of the beau monde would envy her décolleté. When the Noirot sisters were done dressing the young lady, she nearly swooned with happiness. It was reported that her handsomely displayed figure caused several young men to exhibit signs of swooning, too.

“We don’t have ten months this time, ” Leonie said. “And we can’t rely on that vicious cat at Dowdy’s to insult Lady Warford. She’s a marchioness, after all, not the lowly wife of a mere knight.”

“We have to catch her quickly, or the chance is gone forever,” said Sophy. “If Dowdy’s get the Duchess of Clevedon’s wedding dress, they’ll get everything else.”

“Not if I get there first,” Marcelline said.